


Exhale

by hollyesque



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Fix-It, Gen, Heavy on the angst, Hurt/Comfort, Maybe johnlock if you squint, Series 4 Spoilers, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Mess, i should be doing my Machiavelli reading, john's less of a dick, morgue scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:30:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9383078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyesque/pseuds/hollyesque
Summary: It doesn’t escape his notice that this was how Sherlock would sometimes recall him to reality a lifetime ago, when his lungs would feel clogged with sand and he thought he could hear sniper fire whispering in his ear. He hasn’t forgotten, either, how utterly terrifying those moments used to be.( A fix-it. )





	

He knocks the scalpel out of Sherlock’s hand because, even shaking as hard as he is, there’s no guarantee that Sherlock won’t manage to inflict some form of damage.

It’s the bewildered look Sherlock gives him as he backs him against the cooler that does it.

“Stop it. _Stop it.”_ He says, getting in Sherlock’s face, grip tight on the lapels of his coat. “Sherlock. Look at me, yeah? _Look at me.”_

Sherlock’s eyes are red-rimmed and wild, though, and for a moment John isn’t even sure if the detective will recognize him. John feels the dangerously-rapid pace of the rise and fall of his chest and notes with a thrill of alarm that the drugs coursing through his body may very well be leading him over the edge.

“He’s laughing—” Sherlock starts.

“He’s not,” John insists, hearing Culverton’s protest as though from far away, “Sherlock, I’m telling you, he’s not. _Listen_ for me. Come on. Listen to my voice, I’m the only one talking.”

It doesn’t escape his notice that this was how Sherlock would sometimes recall him to reality a lifetime ago, when his lungs would feel clogged with sand and he thought he could hear sniper fire whispering in his ear. He hasn’t forgotten, either, how utterly terrifying those moments used to be.

He releases one of Sherlock’s lapels and cups a hand around his neck instead, bringing his friend’s (yes, _friend,_ god dammit) face closer to his in the hope of establishing some form of focus.

“Look at me,” he commands again, and this time Sherlock obeys, pupils blown wide and looking as though John has just sprouted wings and a halo. “Only me, it’s only me, ok? Listen to my voice, yeah? Focus on my voice, there’s nothing else.”

When Sherlock’s breathing doesn’t decrease even an iota, John adds, “Come on. Come on, Sherlock. It’s just—“ he releases Sherlock’s other lapel and frantically flaps in the direction of the door, and hears with relief as Culverton and Faith catch on and beat a retreat. “Just the two of us,” he finishes, “two of us against the rest of the world, like you said, remember? Now you’ll probably say something smart about how the lights are buzzing and my voice isn’t _actually_ the only sound in the room or some such bollocks—“ he feels hope bloom in his chest as the corner of Sherlock’s mouth tips ever so slightly upward at that, “—but I’m gonna ask you to work with me here. Humor me, if you would.”

John releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when he feels Sherlock’s chest start to stutter around a slower breathing pattern. He isn’t surprised when Sherlock sags, a rather grimy forehead coming into contact with his. “There you go,” he encourages, using the hand on Sherlock’s neck to knead what he hopes are comforting circular motions, “there you go, alright?”

Sherlock looks like he’s fighting hard to keep his eyes from closing now, lids drooping dangerously, and John prepares himself to have an armful of exhausted, collapsed detective any second now.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s small and weak, and if John wasn’t literally leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s he might have missed it. All the same, it makes a lump rise thick and heavy in his throat. “S’alright,” he says, even though he knows Sherlock isn’t talking about the scalpel.

“’M sosorry,” Sherlock says again as though John didn’t speak, “Sosorry, I killed her—“

“N—Sherlock. _No.”_ John has to clear his throat aggressively, blinking rapidly against tears as Sherlock’s head falls weak and heavy onto his shoulder. He closes his eyes, scrunching his face against the wave of _Angersorrowguiltfear_ that floods through him, instead saying, “We’ll talk about this later. Okay?”

“Okay.” The reply is muffled by John’s jacket.

“Okay.”

“John.”

“Yes?”

“…I think I’m gonna…”

And then he’s out, knees buckling and forcing John to catch him before he hits the floor. John whispers a short “Fuck,” as he staggers momentarily under Sherlock’s lanky form, and then there are nurses and a stretcher and Sherlock’s hand weakly flopping around in search of something, but John is there to take it before he drops off again. He’s there; he’s angry as all _motherfucking hell,_ but he’s there.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I think I wrote this in under twenty minutes, but it's been bugging me since I saw the actual (fucking heartbreaking) episode. Sherlock needed a hug, so I gave him a hug. In my mind. Fuck, I'm sad.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed.
> 
> \--Hollyesque


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